Our Fathers
by KL inc
Summary: Chris, Gordie and Teddy all have issues with their fathers.A short fic about their feelings on their fathers' neglect. sorry all you Vern lovers. I NEED REVIEWS! Chapt 3 up!
1. disclaimer info

its me again...you know the drill I like to start my fics with a nice & friendly disclaimer/ informational chapter 

This one's called "Our Fathers" and I am writing it to help me get over some minor writers block while I write my other fic "Everything You Never Wanted"

Summery: Chris, Gordie and Teddy all have issues with their fathers...a short fic about their feelings on their fathers' neglect (sorry all you Vern lovers). possible one shot.

Rating: K+ for some mild language and thematic elements

DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters in STAND BY ME, including the fathers in the novella / movie (Steven King does and he's got a lot of money unlike me...so don't sue; i'm broke)

as always READ & REVIEW !

-K-


	2. It should have been me

Gordie: 

My father never said it out loud. At least not to me. He could have expressed the words I dreaded most to my mother, her voice urgent telling him to "_be quiet_" and "_you don't mean that_". But I know as well as he did, that at the time, he meant it with every fiber of his being. My father hated me, and without regret or remorse.

My father adored, worshipped, and most of all **loved** Denny. Denny was my father's best buddy, and I was **just** his son. At dinner, my brother and father would discuss how each beaseball team ranked in the race for the pennant or what time he could have the car till on Friday night.

My father loved everything about Denny. He was bright enough, but not geeky and shy like I was. He was arguably the best athlete in Castle Rock, and he knew it, but he was never prideful. Denny was also a ladies man, and during my teenage years I soon discovered that I could never live up to that reputation.

I have learned that even if I had a million years to live on this earth, I could never be half the son Denny was to my father; I could never fulfill most of my father's expectations; I couldn't **be** another Denny.

I will always remember the way my father "**died**" the day Denny **passed away**. I guess that really is the way I want to say it; my brother moved onward to another life, a better one than any one of us here on earth can imagine; meanwhile, my father lost his spark, his willingness to live as a real person with my mother and I.

The funeral was massive, considering the size of our hometown. Everyone I had ever met was there. The entire football and basketball teams; six feet tall, two hundred plus pound guys, tough guys were reduced to their boyhood tears in front of my brother's casket. Girls Denny had gone with wailed like animals sick with grief over this hell-of-a-kid. Parents mourned respectfully, but deep down everyone knew they were thanking their lucky stars this horrible accident didn't take the life of one **their** children. And yet I could not cry, I didn't cry until several months later.

Call it what you want "shock," "denial," "fear," I have never felt so guilty in my entire life. My brother was dead and I couldn't shed one tear for all I had lost. It was remarkable, I could cry over some pretty pussy things, but my own brother, I couldn't spare one indication of my grief.

After Denny's funeral, my home life spun out of control. My parents were zombies, and I was invisible. It didn't matter what a said or did, nothing mattered anymore. An "A" on a history exam, great reports from all my teachers, nothing. **Nothing** would bring Denny back.

Then came the brunt of the assault, the thing that haunts my dreams at night and makes me quiver whenever I talk about it. "_It should have been you Gordon_" he said. My own father, my own goddamn father wanted **me** dead! I reasoned that I might as well have died and took advantage of every second away from my folks. I screwed off with whatever pals I wanted to, including Chris Chambers. Late nights in Vern's back field, smoking a couple of butts up in the treehouse, my old man didn't care. As long as I was out on my own, I was a free man.

Sure my parents weren't happy I was regularly hanging out with a pack of "hoodlums", they objected several times. But I never listened, my friends were the only ones who gave a damn about me. "_Why can't you have friends like Denny's_?" "_Why can't you date nice girls, like Jane?_" "_Why don't you wake up, and get a real job Gordon? you'll never survive on peanuts, being a writer_!"

Chris and Denny were the only ones who ever supported my writing. Denny said he was impressed with the way I thought and I never had to do anything I didn't want to. Chris always begged me to tell him the latest stories I had come up with, and I was glad to do it.

In my brothers eyes and in Chris's too, I was just the person I should have been; me. I never had to pretend to like watching a bunch of bafoons chasing a ball or be interested in the picks of the draft. Most importantly, I never had to pretend that it didn't bother me that my father wished I were dead, instead of the brother that I so desperately missed. I knew I would never have to lie and say that somedays, I didn't wish it **too**.


	3. I'm no good

Chris: 

Most kids look up to their fathers, he's the hero in their lives, he's everything they hope they can be when they're all grown up. I was **never** one of those kids.

I never really liked calling him my "_father_", "_old man_" was fine and even "_dad_" was all right every once and a while. He never taught me anything except that I had to fight to prove I was good enough for anything. I was just a lowly chambers kid, and I couldn't change that.

After a while it didn't matter anymore. I didn't even feel what he was doing to me. Sure, my nose bled and I looked like a cheetah with all the bruises; but I couldn't **feel** the words that he was saying. They couldn't hurt me like they did when I was young.

I was once naive enough to believe that this would all end. That suddenly my pop would quit drinking, start loving us and become a family man. He never stopped loving my mother, my brothers and I, because he never **began**.

My mother always said "_your father, is a good man, deep down_". I never understood how she could make such excuses for a piece of shit like my "_father_". My brothers were no better, with every bad decision they made they were becoming more and more like **him**. Especially my eldest brother, hell he even went to **jail** for raping a girl. _Abuse is a vicious cycle, so if you know someone who is being abused tell someone,_ that's what the crap they feed us at school. Its the sixties, people are starting to make what was once secret, public. I think it **scares** a lot of people.

Lets face it, some people just can't be bothered to get "involved" with other peoples' problems. Issues are seen as diseases, like influenza, the ones that are so **contagious** you couldn't stop from contracting no matter how hard you try being a hobbit. So rather than confronting or trying their best to help a peer's situation, they ignore it and sweep in under the rug.

People also tend to ignore why a person has a certain reputation. I'm not a bad person, really I'm not, other than stealing the milk money I've never done a bad thing in my whole life. My only **crime** is being a Chambers. I'm no good; not because I'm poor; not because my father's a drunk who beats his own family; not because some days I can't go to school because I hurt so bad, just because I am a Chambers.

Maybe I brought this on **myself**. Maybe in a past life, if you believe in that sort of thing, I was such an evil human being that god saw it fit to punish me, just like my dad.

No matter how hard I try, I just can't help but blame my mother for at least some of this. She has never once thought of running away, and when he goes to slap the taste out of her mouth she doesn't even duck or turn away. When its all over, she goes back to her vanity and covers a fresh bruise with a thick layer of powder. That's the **only** time I've ever seen her wear makeup, when daddy dearest is on a mean streak.

Sometimes I wonder if someday my old man's gonna' hit me so hard I flat out croak. What will people say at my funeral? Will anyone come? Will my father spread some bullshit around town like I fell down the stairs and busted my head wide open? Will my brothers and sisters get along without me, or will they join me sooner than I could ever think? I can't be sure.

I can't be sure of anything right now. All I know is I've **got **to get the hell out of Castle Rock.


	4. I will not lose it

Teddy: 

He's not crazy. I lived with my father for five years, if he was crazy, I'd know. He wasn't crazy, he'd just had it rough.

People just don't understand. When anyone says "Thomas Duchamp" they instantly think of a man locked up in one of those nuthouses. Then again Togus ain't exactly known for their rehabilitation record. Most patients never recover from their "episodes".

But how would I know how my father's doing? I haven't seen him in at least two years. The fear that I hide so well has gotten the better of me, at least this time. "Soldier's aren't afraid Theodore" my father once said. But being a soldier also takes concentration; a soldier does not need the distraction of a lunatic for a father.

It doesn't matter what happened to my father; he stormed the beach at Normandy; whatever he did that day left a far more important mark on the world than the one on my ear.

It was a Saturday morning and my mother was at the grocery store getting food for a big Sunday dinner (a custom very near and dear to my father's heart). She left about one in the afternoon and said she'd be back soon. My father was sitting at the kitchen table; the one that had been passed down from father to son for many generations. It was a great legacy; my great-grandfather had constructed that table by hand and the DuChamp men had been defenders of our nation all the way back to the revolution (A/N: Is that possible even though Teddy has a french name?)

I had always loved hearing my father talk of the war and what he had seen. He had been standing next to men who's legs were blown to pieces and even see a guy's gut explode (he had been hit in the stomach just as they crossed onto the shore). He and his comrades were being shot at from every direction and they had to sprint at full tilt to shoot back at the enemy. There were stories of _every_ kind from my father. A young soldier excited to be on the front lines got out of his tent without pants on, a best friend promised to marry the gal of his best friend Marty McKenna, and of course the stories he told about Normandy- those were my favorite.

Around one o'clock on the day I will never forget, my father began telling me another one of his famous war stories. He recounted for me how he had seen those sons of bitches, the youngest one was the brave one, he was no more than a shoulder width away from him. The enemy soldier yelled something in a language my father didn't understand and just as the scumbag cocked his gun, my father popped a bullet into his chest. My father was not afraid of **anything**, to die for his country would have been a _honor_ and a **privilege**.

I was completely wrapped up in the story my father was telling. To this day, I swear I could smell the sulfur from the gun blast, taste the salty air swirling around the sandy beach, I could hear the crack of the rifle, the screams of men hurtling across the spongy earth. My father continued his narration as I listened intently, imagining the scenes as he passionately described them.

"That war was not a place for pussies, Theodore. I was a man! I fought for everything I believed in! Those fucking Japs, they wanted to kill me, they wanted to kill our freedom! The very fucking fabric our country was based on! Do you think I was going to stand for that Theodore?!"

Not that I was _afraid_, but if I had been it would have been at this exact moment and every second that went by until my mom arrived home. She was gone just forty minutes- just long enough for everything to change.

"No sir" I said, straightening myself so I could stand tall and ready, like a proper soldier. My father's eyes glazed over, his expression became difficult to read, like he was in one of those trances you see in the movies.

He mumbled to himself "I did it...had to...they would've killed me...had to...had to". The gloss in his eyes threatened to spill over any second. I could feel it throughout my entire body- something was terribly wrong.

"Dad?" I called, trying to bring him back from wherever he was. "Dad?" I called out again, trying forcefully to reel him back into the present. But his mind was too far back. His brain had reached the deepest, darkest images, sights and sounds in all his memories. It was as if I could see what he was thinking, and suddenly all the stories he'd shared came to life in frightening crystal clarity. I could feel the sand rubbing against my bare arms, the smell of the early morning tide mingling with the sharp odor of sulfur and blood. The sounds were unmistakable war sounds- the pops, bursts and bangs of guns, young men crying out in anguish, shouts of mourning and dispair. It all felt so real. It wasn't just a story, my father had lived it. My father's eyes flicked back and forth with thought, his hands began trembling, his mouth quivering, trying to suppress his cries. I felt it, I sensed it, I knew it was coming...

And yet I did n**othing**. I remained stoic, restrained, as if it were happening somewhere else, to someone else. I could see the stove out of the corner of my eye, its coils burning hot in preparation for the hot dinner that was to be served. Where was my mother? She said she'd be gone only a few minutes, just out to pick up some odds and ends she'd forgotten about. I was supposed to put water on for...something- I'd been distracted by the story. Where was she? I stood where I was, a model soldier. My father let out a howl, so animal like, I had the instinct to look out the window. He seized me by the face, squeezing my cheeks together, shaking my head violently. Once my glasses fell, my father became but a blur, but I knew what would be next. He shoved me a few paces forward screaming "I had to!" his pitch on the verge of breaking. The heat from the stove warmed the back of my neck, but the hair on it's base stood up despite the heat. I saw it coming. I couldn't even find the strength to step aside or run for the door. "Dad!" I pleaded, trying to talk him out of his rage. "They would've fucking killed me!" he bellowed his eyes bulging out of his sagging face. His icy hands gripped my face, forcing my entire head toward the fiery stove "No!" I screamed, my tears hissing as they hit the heat of the unit...

I could never _explain_ the pain, even if I looked through every thesaurus and dictionary in existence- it can't be defined. I wouldn't wish the physical agony I felt on anyone, even if sometimes I catch myself thinking a bastard like Ace Merrill could learn from something like that. My ear is virtually useless now, that is without the help of a ridiculous looking hearing aid. Its disgusting and I've often had visions of ripping it off like Picasso did (guess even big shots can be "off their rocker"). Everyday I have to look at this gross lump of scarred flesh on the side of my face and theirs nothing I can do to prevent people from seeing- I can't hide it or the memory it brings back everytime I look at its image. Everyone knows the story of that Sunday morning- this is Castle Rock, **nobody** has secrets. I can't stop them from talking about it, gossiping about shit they no nothing about. That's exactly what it is- bullshit.

My father's no shithouse loony. The war did something to him, I know it. He was willing to give up his whole life for the good of the free world, he gave up his mind and _sanity_. And what good did it do him? People in this town don't appreciate anything! He was- he is a hero, that's forever! Long after I'm dead and my bad ear's rotted away he'll still be among those brave man that stormed the beach.

My mother doesn't talk about him much- the man she married is gone, that''s true--but she doesn't respect him, or the man she was. She lives in a world that isn't really connected with reality- where my father's on some never-ending vacation, sometimes its like he was never a part of my family. She hovers over me at dinner telling me to sit up straight, eat my vegetables, say my prayers before I hit the sheets- if that isn't the behavior of a nut- well hell, I don't know what is. Isn't that the basic definition of crazy: a loss of contact with reality?

The only thing the people in this town see when they look at me are my parents. If I feel like screwing around- I'm my father's son, if I help some old lady waddle across the street- I can thank my lucky stars I have a wonderful mother watching over me, helping me become a responsible young man. Apparently, I was the _only_ person born without free will! I am but a product of my upbringing and not of my own morals and decisions. Well fuck, if that's true and there's not a sane thought between my parents where in the hell does that leave me?

I am not my father's son, I am my own person. I've lost the battle, but **not** the war.


End file.
